guided by grief
love, loss, and the healing power of community
How she found me,
I'll never know,
And all she’s taught me,
It continues to grow.
Her patience, her paws,
Her pursuits,
Without her, I wonder—
Would I have made it through?
These words flowed through my fingers one morning as I sat in the wake of mourning, learning how to navigate life without you, Lola. Learning how to continue on without your presence amazes me. Yet, even as I write this, I can clearly hear you say you’re right here—you haven’t left anything behind except your body—and you absolutely haven’t left me. And still, I miss you...
Yesterday was Rainbow Bridge Remembrance Day. Although I’m not one to typically participate in calendar-marked events like this, I felt a significant tug on my heartstrings. In many ways, the universe showed me just how urgent and necessary it is to make space to honor the grief that comes from knowing an animal's love and learning to live without their physical presence.
Unplanned and unscripted, while holding space with my students at our county’s juvenile justice center, one of them vulnerably shared that her dog had passed away the night before. Almost automatically, and in defense of the big emotions, she repeatedly said, “It’s okay,” yet I could see and feel just how not okay it was.
This student is experiencing many difficulties and injustices, especially in relation to her birth family. Currently, she is navigating life almost nomadically, no longer living with her parents and residing with her aunt. In this move, she not only lost her home and closeness to her mom and dad, but she’s also been away from her dog. Accepting and processing that reality is a hard pill to swallow.
As she continued to insist it was okay, we moved into our activity for the day, centered around facing fears and experiencing emotions. Our activity was "emotion charades," where we acted out different emotions using only our bodies—no words needed. The kids amazed me with their ability to express these emotions and guess them quickly. After each round, we discussed what we could do to support someone feeling that way, and their reflections were quite profound.
When it was her turn, she expressed apprehension, saying she was embarrassed and didn’t want to "suck at it"—her words, not mine. We reassured her that no judgment would be passed; we were all just giving it a try. She picked her card and began to act, but what unfolded was more than just charades. Her body burst with emotions—frustration, anger, sadness, fear. Tears formed, her energy exploded as she threw the card, screamed that she didn’t want to do this, and retreated into the smallest ball on the couch. I gently kept saying, “It’s okay, we love you.”
What happened next wasn’t just charades; it was raw and real. The other students, usually chatty, got quiet, concerned, compassionate, and supportive. Without saying a word, they demonstrated what it means to be in a community of care, embodying the very work we’ve been practicing. I could feel the love through all the electricity of pain.
A staff member took the student, who was clearly moving through her grief, anger, and loss, aside. As a group, we held our palms up in solidarity, sending love as we regrouped and checked in with our feelings. After a few minutes, she returned, sat down, and quietly said, “My dog just died.” In an instant, we all got up, placed our hands lightly on her, and allowed her to sob. We allowed her to melt, to feel safe enough to express it all and cry.
We shared so much in the silence and the sounds of grief leaving her body. After a few moments, those around her shared their own experiences of losing animals and how much it hurt, and when the time was right, so did I.
None of this was something I anticipated for our hour together, yet it fully aligned with what I hoped to convey: that it’s safe to feel our emotions, even though it’s scary. That we need to feel our emotions because they are wise messengers, alive in our bodies, communicating our needs and feelings. It’s brave to let emotions move through us. And in community, it’s sometimes a little easier, knowing we have safe people around us who can honor our feelings, our humanity, and our needs with love and non-judgment—just space to be as we are.
Group hugs and laughter found us when we were ready. The student, whose heart was so clearly hurting, apologized for the disruption, and we all, staff included, reassured her that it was okay. We recognized that we hold so much in day by day, and we need to let it out. I’m thankful the emotion charade cards somehow sparked those big feels for her because she needed to cry. She needed to know it is absolutely valid and just to feel that pain when losing an animal.
My heart still aches when I think about how much I miss my Lola girl and Carlos-son. My heart hurts when I think about how the outer world often doesn’t allow the space or grace to mourn our animal family and friends. We learn to dismiss and deny the immense pain that comes from their passing, and I hope we’re all on the wavelength of change so everyone can honor such grief with safety, stability, and softness.
As someone who has lost two parents and knows how messed up that is in its long-term effects and acceptance, I can tell you that losing the two pups who were unconditionally there for me through that and so much more was even more gut-wrenching. Animals love in a way we humans have yet to learn. But what if in grieving, we find our way to love more tenderly, show up more boldly, and give more fiercely, just as these precious companions do?
This work feels so natural and needed to me—to hold space for the story, the sadness, the signs, and the ways in which love reminds us it could never die and our faithful companions could never truly leave us. To create and foster a community where you can feel it all at your own pace, a space where we can open our voices and hearts to the reality that animal grief is as real, raw, and overwhelming as any other loss. A space where connection and compassion are clear, and the willingness to practice loving-kindness for ourselves and all living beings is evident. This work doesn’t take my breath away—it gives it to me!
Here I am, living a life where I get to create those opportunities and environments, even when unplanned and unscripted. The great gift of being present to all that is alive in the room with an open heart offers miracles and lessons beyond anything we could read in a book. These children amaze me time and time again, and feeling the universal support holding us through it all keeps me present, without fear, without needing to know what will happen—just trusting that love will find its way through.
This is the work of being well, and for so much of my life, I was not well. There are many parallels between me and these kids I support. Lola came into my life when I was 21 years old. I was living with a boyfriend, and we were both waking up to the traumas and instabilities of our own families and upbringings. With little awareness, language, or lived experience, and with addictive personalities, we created a toxic and abusive cycle.
Lola entered my life when everything was colliding and crashing into me, and I pretended I knew how to navigate it all with ease. I was drowning, and she came to save me. I was dying, and she returned me to life. I don’t often talk or write about those earlier years—most of you met me in the era of resurrection from the loss of my parents and the traumas that entailed. Most of the time, I speak from the “after” and not the “before” because it’s so hard. I was 21 and had a drinking problem. I drank to black out, to create a void. I had no sustainable self-esteem and struggled with eating disorders and body dysmorphia. I was a shell of what I thought I needed to be, and it took Lola coming into my life for me to see that I needed help, healing, and freedom.
She guided me out of darkness, and I could always find the light in her eyes and the truth reflected back at me. She helped me see, just as these students do. I believe everything and everyone that enters our path has something to offer, something to teach. And I also believe it all comes down to love, to compassion, to allowing ourselves to feel, heal, and move toward our most abundant and free selves.
So, dear reader, please do me and yourself the biggest favor: allow yourself to see what you need, what you’re worth, and what is alive in you. When was the last time you cried? When was the last time you were cared for? When was the last time you knew unconditional love, support, and joy? It’s alive in you and in your grief too. What if it’s all here, just wanting to guide us through?
And to Lola, thank you, sweet girl, for always finding a way to keep me clear and courageous in all the work of love I’m here to do. Carlos too.
All the love and grief in me honors all the love and grief in you.